


Two Left Feet

by sciderman



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Dance Instructor AU, Humor, Multi, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6379171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciderman/pseuds/sciderman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker is a mess in life and on the dancefloor, and Mary Jane hopes she can remedy at least one of these problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Left Feet

“I don’t need dancing lessons.”

 

“Are you kidding me? You know when stick insects are wobbling around trying to walk on a branch? That’s what _you_ look like when dancing.”

 

“That’s an elegant process, okay? I’m taking that as a compliment. I don’t need dancing lessons. Besides, who does dancing, really? Only celebrities on television, when their publicity is waning.”

 

“Dancing is a fun thing that social people do, in social environments.”

 

“A-ha! But I’m _not_ a social person.”

 

“Pete, is being alone so incredibly riveting that you’d pass up on any human interaction when it arises? Come on, you’ve been single… _how long?_ ”

 

“Since Gwen,” Peter grumbled.

 

“Right, and that’s, what? Two…?”

 

“ _Two years._ And sure, it sounds _sad_ when you say it like _that_.”

 

“It _is_ sad, Pete. That’s _exactly_ what this is. You need to get outside… Have some _fun,_ breathe some air _,_ get some blood pumping through that narrow mind of yours,” MJ said, poking a finger at the centre of Peter’s forehead.

 

“Great. I’ll take up jogging. Maybe even yoga.”

 

“I’ve _booked_ the class, Pete. We’re going dancing.”

 

“I’m _not_ going dancing!”

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, they went dancing.

 

The class was small, but still far too large for Peter, whose eyes darted around the room like a rabbit cornered by three foxes. That is, there were three other couples in the room. They all looked perfectly in love, by the way. Probably rehearsing for their _marriage_ receptions, the saps. It brought a heavy sick feeling in Peter’s stomach, being surrounded by so much happiness.

 

“Stop scowling.”

 

“I’m–– I’m _not_ scowling.”

 

Peter was definitely scowling. This was the last place in the world he wanted to be. The cherry to top the cake was that Peter was an _atrocious_ dancer. Cornered by Disney branded happily ever afters, and he’ll make a fool of himself in front of them too. Perfect. Just how he wanted to spend his afternoon.

 

“Alright, losers, welcome to class,” the instructor spoke up, having just entered through the door. 4 minutes late, but Peter wasn’t counting. He was glad for any second that he didn’t have to spend stumbling over his feet. Was he wearing the right shoes? He fixed his eyes on his sneakers, shaking his head. His eyes wandered to the other couples in the room.

 

“I’m Mr Wilson, but we’re not in second grade, so you ladies out there can call me _Wade_ .” The instructor announced, pacing back and forth at the forefront of the classroom. “To the _boys_ though, I expect to be addressed as _Mr Wilson._ If there’s one trick to get a fella to move his hips like John Travolta, it’s the _intimidation_ tactic.” He stood up straight, stamping his foot as he did so, in a militaric fashion. As he stood still, Peter could finally get a glance of the instructor, er, _Mr Wilson’s_ appearance. He was a bald man, with uneven skin, extensive scarring at the sides of his sharp, expressive face. He held a firm frown, looking, funnily enough, precisely like you’d imagine a military general would look. He marched to the nearest couple to the front, speaking forcefully to the man of the union.

 

_“What do you call me?!”_

 

“Uh, Mr Wilson, Sir!” The young man shrank away, frightened.

 

 _Oh, god,_ Peter groaned. _I’m not going to like this one bit._

 

“I don’t cut any slack, mi compadres. If you’re standing here it means you want to learn how to dance your enemies into submission. And by God, I will _teach_ you.” Wade spun on the tip of his toes, landing with a click of his shoes, and a flourish of his arms. There was a chorus of _“Ooh!”_ from the women in the room. He continued, “Mastering the art of dance is the most worthwhile thing you can do in life. And I’m totally not just saying that because that’s where my checks are coming from. I can see that some of you really _don’t_ want to be here…”

 

Peter could feel MJ’s gaze boring through him.

 

"...And for that, I pity you. For you will likely never know the feeling of satisfying your partner sexually."

 

Peter snorted, a grin taking his features. Okay, this guy was entertaining, Peter'd give him _that._

 

 _"_ We'll start with a warm up, we don't want any of you kids to pull your _baby_ muscles. Keep up with me, or it's detentions for the lot of you."

 

The class began, and it was basic rhythmic exercises, which Peter contemptuously performed, shooting the occasional grumpy glance at MJ, who gave a cheeky grin in return, nose scrunching and cheeks dimpled, making Peter utterly miserable that MJ could look so adorable whilst utterly _ruining_ his life with forced exercise and social interaction.

 

"Eyes forward, pretty boy. Straighten your back." Mr Wilson spoke up, gaining Peter's attention. Peter stumbled from his rhythm a little, as his eyes fell on the instructor, who stood close, scrutinising Peter's movements.

 

"Step forward with your _left_ leg. Left, _then_ right."

 

"Right," Peter said in a small voice, looking down to his feet as if supervision was needed to get them in order.

 

"I said _left."_

 

"I know-- I meant--"

 

Peter's words fell silent on Mr Wilson’s impatient scowl, and Peter felt a squeak leave his throat.

 

"Y-yes, Mr Wilson!"

 

" _Smooth_ , brown-eyes. I bet the lady is impressed," The taller man spoke, sending a grin MJ's way. MJ could only chuckle in return.

 

"We're, uh, not a couple," Peter muttered. Peter was doing surprisingly okay with his footwork today, at the expense of his speech, in which he stumbled all over.

 

"Uh... _okay?_ Not sure why you'd tell me that, buddy. Unless, of course... well, I don't usually swing that way, I'll be honest.” The scarred man’s eyes darted down, taking in Peter’s appearance, Peter feeling bare and embarrassed. A smile curled its way onto Mr Wilson’s lips. “...But I appreciate the thought. I have a class to teach. Don't let me catch you slackin'!"

 

And he walked away, leaving Peter to bury his heated face in his palms.

 

Mr Wilson proceeded to address all students in his class, “Okay, sweethearts, grab your partner”, he flashed a look back at Peter, “or _not_ -partner, or whatever.”

 

“I think he likes you.” MJ spoke into Peter's ear, completely unhelpfully as she hooked her arms around him. “You've always been a teacher's pet.”

 

“Oh, _god_ , shut up.”

 

* * *

 

The class was a never ending nightmare for Peter Parker, who was a one-man orchestra of groans and grumbles throughout. Mary Jane seemed to have never been so entertained in her life, chortling at every heated sigh that passed Peter's lips. Every correction Mr Wilson made on Peter's technique served to make Peter's brow redder and redder, until you could swear he were going to snap back at the man like a bear trap.

 

The only thing keeping Peter sane was seeing how much MJ was loving every second of this. He couldn't help it–– he _loved_ MJ. Her wrinkled nose when she snickered, the flash of teeth when she grinned, her small, freckled shoulders in that sweet black sleeveless top that's simple but has somehow become iconic.

 

Mary Jane has become a spill of sunshine in a two-year-long rainstorm. Peter knew MJ wanted only for Peter to gain back his passion for life. He knew the dance classes would probably help.

 

He knew Mary Jane was right. She usually was.

 

Peter made a mental note: _Never_ wrong. Mary Jane was _never_ wrong about these things.

 

Mary Jane never lost her passion for life. Never for a second. She was an ever-burning firework. Peter wondered if bad news ever struck her as it did him. When she gets turned down at auditions, she picks herself right up, and heads straight to the next one. But when Peter Parker gets turned down, the world shuts every door and Peter slams every window and door right back. He drapes melodramatically on the couch and proclaims _it’s all over!_

 

He did exactly that when Mary Jane turned him down. He understood, of course. MJ was the kind of gal that doesn't slow down. Doesn't stand back and wait for a bumbling, slow-paced _boyfriend_ to catch up. It's like a _Ferrari_ hauling a rickety caravan. A totally absurd sight.

 

Well, that's how Peter saw it, anyway. Putting more thought into it, he admitted that his friendship with MJ is so valuable to him, and he was so proud of her, that he wouldn't dream of interrupting her rise to fame for one moment.

 

 _Nobody wants to be a celebrity’s ex,_ Peter justified. _Everybody wants to be a celebrity's BFF._

 

That didn't help the fact that Peter Parker was lonely. Utterly lonely.

 

“Hey, you two! The not-couple!”

 

Peter and MJ halted at the door, after graveled call of Mr Wilson reached them. In Peter, a sharp sting of anxiety pierced his body, as it always did when a teacher asked him to stay behind after class. It was hardly ever any _good_ news.

 

“Names. Names, tell me your names.” Mr Wilson said, snapping his fingers. Friendly, but not dropping the intimidation tactic quite yet.

 

“MJ,” Mary Jane said, with a cheery twang.

 

Peter mumbled quietly under her, “uh, Peter.”

 

“Oh. Hey, _Uh-Peter_. Sorry to tell you, but you're dragging down the whole class. We mark on averages.” He shook Peter's hand vigorously, shaking the poor boy along with it. “Born with two left feet? I get it. Tragic. You might want to pursue a surgical solution for that.”

 

He turned to MJ.

 

“You were great, though. You've done this before?”

 

“Done some stage shows with a couple of choreographed dances.” MJ said proudly.

 

“Ooh! An _actress.”_ Wade said, with a gleeful pitch to his voice. He turned to Peter, voice low like a whisper. “Bet you feel pretty bummed out about this _not-dating_ situation. She's an angel.”

 

Mr Wilson brought a hand to lift Mary Jane’s, and left a soft kiss on it. Peter Parker didn't know _what_ to do.

 

 _“Y-Yeah--”_ He watched Mary Jane, quiet, so she couldn't hear. “She is.”

 

“It was a pleasure having you in my class, MJ.” He paused, with pursed lips, clearly in thought. “Short for _Michael Jackson?”_

 

“You got it.”

 

“An _honour_ , Mr Jackson. I cried for three weeks after you died.”

 

Peter watched the conversation with distance, stepping a little backwards as though it would be enough to make certain he wouldn't have to speak again.

 

“You know we have _children’s_ dance classes for your friend.” Wade said pointedly, to which Peter gave an eye roll. “Might be more his speed.”

 

“I think Peter’s more looking for a private tutor”, MJ paid Peter a glance, to which Peter shook his head fast, even bringing his hands up in his iconic “ _nope”_ gesture. MJ’s glance darted back to Mr Wilson. Wade looked at her, silent for a few seconds. Before his mind finally understood what she was getting at.

 

“Oh! No. No no, no. Not me.” Wade threw up his hands, echoing Peter. “I really don't do the one-on-one classes, but I could suggest some instructors if you--”

 

“$30 an hour.”

 

Wade froze.

 

“... _Well_ , Petey, I can't wait to see you for our class this Thursday at 5pm. I certainly hope you won't be late.”

 

With that, Mr Wilson danced out the door, pausing mid-beat to shoot a wink to Peter Parker.

 

Peter Parker deflated with a whine.

 

“And here I thought it was because you enjoyed _watching_ me suffer.”

 

“Nope! Just the _knowledge_ that you're suffering is enough for me. And well worth the _bargain_ price of $30 an hour.”

 

“You're not--”

 

“Yes, I am. First three classes are on me.”

 

“MJ, you know I can't let you do that.”

 

“Better make it _worthwhile_ , Mr. I-Don't-Dance”, MJ cooed. “You better be able to _move those hips like John Travolta_ , or I’m charging you.”


End file.
